Longing to belong
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: After their encounter with Serena Kaye one question seems to linger between them, "Do I belong to you?" Set during and post Eye of the Beholder.


An amalgamation of two prompts from the castlefanfics page on tumblr. Prompts at the end for those (like me) who like to sneak down and read them first ;) With massive thanks to Jessie for the cover and EVERYTHING else the last few weeks. Also FF being delightful refreshed at the last second changing the title to Long, so to clarify... s'not smut.

* * *

Castle peers through the blinds into the room beyond, half hidden by the fallen slats. He watches Serena lean in, listening to their suspected thief, already mentally mapping the movements and mannerisms for a character forming in his head.

Lost in the casual confidence that radiates from the woman, Castle's wondering how best to emulate it on paper when he senses Beckett at his back. It's moments before she speaks and yet he wearily fights down the sigh that rumbles in his chest.

She's still jealous and it felt good for a while, made him feel wanted by her in ways he doesn't usually get to indulge. But now it's getting tedious. Tiring in a _we only had this conversation a few months ago_ kind of way, making him mime strangling her in frustration when all he really wants to do is step in close and lace his fingers through her hair as he kisses her.

She scoffs and his curiosity gets the better of him, about to turn when Serena laughs, drawing his attention back. Castle feels Beckett stiffen behind him, feels the quiver of emotion between them like an arctic shift, a sudden chill whispering down his spine.

He closes his eyes, tilts to mentally observe, question the usefulness of Serena Kaye's direct approach. It certainly has an effect. Maybe it's a method he should adopt himself.

His eyes blink open, drawn to her technique, unable to stop himself when he wonders aloud, "Do you think she'll get him to talk?"

Feet stamp, Beckett close behind, stepping in and glancing over his shoulder, "Who knows, Castle. Maybe she'll _kiss it_ out of him."

Venom scorches her tone and he drops the cord of the blinds to watch them rattle down, obscuring Serena and the outside world as he turns on the spot to face her. Beckett's already walking away, sipping angrily at the coffee she insisted on making herself, even though they both _know_ she prefers his.

Castle scrunches his fists, growls loud enough to have her turning back to him, her brows narrowing in confusion and then - taking in his expression and stance - disbelief.

_Really?_

He's calling her out and he doesn't do that, not often, not blatantly and never like this. Serena's inspired him more than he realized.

"Why won't you let it go?"

"Let what go?" She shrugs and sips again at her self-made coffee, quickly hiding her grimace of distaste at the distinct lack of Castle finesse, clearly not happy with the result. Yet she holds her head high when she faces him, content to deliberately have no idea what he's talking about.

Until he laughs.

"You're jealous." He states as though it's obvious, waiting out her inevitable denial by shrugging his _yeah, whatever_ pose in her direction, unaware of the heat that rushes low and pools in her stomach because of it.

"I - what?"

She cannot bring herself to lie, to say no, to feign lack of desire when she would have gladly traded places with Serena, happily been the one Castle had pressed against the wall.

Her words tangle and trip over themselves, none rushing free, nothing she conjures enough to bear the weight of what she truly wants.

Castle grins when she doesn't answer, strides forward as though fueled by some unconfirmed confirmation. Does her love, and yearning to feel his touch, really call to him so loudly?

Maybe he simply suspected the whole time, the jealous Beckett beast roaring in her chest, but the way he's suddenly looking at her makes her feel as though her skin is actually glowing green.

"What was it you said to me, Beckett?" He tilts his head and throws out the question with such darkening desire and joy she knows he already has the answer.

His eyes dance, hold her gaze, read beyond the paltry mask until her cheeks are burning hot. Castle's practically vibrating on the spot, so close she can taste the heat of his breath in the air. She opens her mouth to answer, to do something besides stare at him and count the rapid thud of her pulse, but he won't have it, oh no, he has to beat her to the punch.

"You've been compromised?" He quotes knowingly. "Only I don't think it's me that's been compromised, Kate. It's _you_."

He's suddenly close, uttering her name when _they don't do that _making her even more keenly aware of the nothingness of distance now between them.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She challenges, her voice a whisper that betrays her instantly.

It sounds hollow to her own ears, an unintelligent, ungraceful question asked by someone who prides herself on being both. Her love for him makes her clumsy and youthful in ways she doesn't understand, can't get used to and doesn't want to escape.

His eyes soften and his smile falls away. He won't laugh at her, won't speak again unless it's the truth. But, reaching for her, Castle asks himself one simple, terrifying question. Does she want to kiss him as much as he wants to kiss her?

Her eyes widen when his thigh bumps her own, lips press hard together when Castle takes her hand and steals the coffee from her, leaving her palms upturned, hovering, un-tethered.

She grips him hard when he replaces the warm ceramic with his own fingers, the heated contrast so sudden she stares down and up so quickly, not sure it's real.

"Castle?"

If there's panic it goes unread, lies dead below every other emotion that rushes to the surface the closer he gets.

His thumbs soothe across the back of her hands, one drifting to her elbow, the other to touch her cheek, sliding into her hair the way he imagined it would.

The warmth of his palm at her ear allows his fingers to lose themselves in the softness of each delicate strand. Her eyes close at the touch, tipping into it.

Castle sighs, eyes closing and opening, not sure what he'll find in the depths of her expression should he be brave enough to look. Panic? Fear? The fight falls out of him long before he searches for either.

He answers slowly, her forgotten question suddenly more important than anything else, "It means you should know _better_, Kate."

Her name tastes right in his mouth.

Always has.

She startles, when he speaks, when his breath touches her lips and stains her mouth with regret, when he says her name with quiet desperation. Every little movement feels magnified, every press of skin to skin in places they don't usually touch is electric, is fire, is burning heat and sensation and Kate feels her breath catch in her chest.

She's not supposed to be doing this yet, not the least little bit ready to love him the way she's always known she could.

But she's diving in and her hand is curving its own path around his bicep and her fingers are touching his mouth, seeking proof. The hot scorch of his breath against her serving a purpose she never would have foreseen.

He's right, she's compromised.

She's jealous.

She's done with waiting.

She might not be _where_ she wants to be, but he's with her and maybe that's enough. He's the light through the cracks of her broken composition. The sun that warms her like the fluttered heat of his breath against her fingertips.

So, when he breaks the treatied stretch of no-mans-land between them, when his mouth hovers over her own, telling her for the slightest second he's unsure, Kate rises onto the tips of her toes and kisses him back.

* * *

They don't talk about it, not once, even after Serena has left the building.

When Beckett asks, voice light with hope, adorably wide eyes far too inviting in their quiet anticipation, there's a small part of him that remains stunned and not quite able to form a response. Luckily that part of his brain has rarely ever been attached to his mouth.

It's not a date.

At least he doesn't _think_ it's a date.

But they kissed and his agreement to go grab an N.Y.P.D funded burger post case has her smiling at him, cheeks lifting, ushering him out ahead of her like it's something new, something she's excited by.

Castle sashays around her when they finally circle back to her desk, reaching for her coat and holding it up with another smile.

Her eyes fall, smile almost shy in that way that tugs sharply in his stomach, stepping into him she slips her arms through the sleeves and presses her back to his chest.

"How generous are the N.Y.P.D feeling today?" Castle enquires, leaning in so his voice is barely more than a whisper, not sure how many people she's willing to have know about their plans.

He can't help wondering if the lingering remnants of her lips on his glow like a beacon to anyone that's ever placed a bet on their obviously predestined courtship. For a moment or two Castle becomes convinced his face is a fog horn of obviousness.

"Hmm," Beckett pretends to deliberate, a hint of mirth hidden in the vibration, "I _might_ stretch to a sundae -"

"Oooh."

She smirks, " - if I can have your _pickle_?"

He double blinks, opens and closes his mouth when she grins, then presses on, "Can I get whipped cream and extra chocolate syrup?"

"When have you ever not?"

"Touché," he concedes, "deal."

He lifts her hair from her collar, accidentally thumbs the warmth at the base of her skull and the hum that leaves her throat is dragged back just a second too slowly. He doesn't comment and neither does she, gesturing in the direction of the elevator.

He wants to laugh at how ridiculous they are. Both pretending they heard nothing, never kissed, and don't know Castle hates pickles. He gives in and smiles as they step inside the elevator, riding it down in silence. He only ever orders the damn things so Beckett will steal them from his plate.

Remy's is busy and they quickly place their orders. Her's with extra pickles - even though she's gonna eat his - and Castle's with double cheese. When the food arrives they pass it back and forth, arranging elbows and baskets, dishes and cutlery, until it fits on the slightly cramped table of their snug booth in the back.

"If you could just -"

"And I'll squish this in by here."

"We could tip this in and share?"

"Sounds good."

"Napkin?"

"Straw?"

They ask at the same time and trade immediately, fingertips barely missing. Castle tips his head, watches when Beckett ducks her own, smiling yet curling her hair behind her ear before it can fall and hide it from him.

"Thank you, Castle," she sighs contentedly, her eyes on the food.

The basket of fries stays firmly between them under the guise of being shared. _Sharing_ is a bit of a stretch when her hands sneak out more than his and every time his fingers linger she gives a little rap to his knuckles to shoo him along, away from the crunchy ones - she likes those best.

Yet they keep up the pretense, it's what they do. Easier maybe, and less daunting, smiling and happy, laughing as she steals another fry - really Beckett, that one wasn't even sneaky - tilting her head to watch him grin when he dips it into her shake and she grimaces.

"That's ... disgusting."

"It's really not. There's something quite decadent about a salt and sugar combination," he licks his lips and hums his own gruff sound of pleasure at the taste in his mouth. "It's almost -"

"Orgasmic?" She arches an eyebrow as he coughs, a flare of panic through her eyes as she realizes what she said. "Just, ya know, from your expression."

The words fade away when they do nothing to help her and she mumbles _shut up_ under _her_ breath before he's even caught _his_.

"I had an _orgasmic_ expression?" Castle teases, wiping his mouth and raising his eyebrows daringly.

"I would have too if you hadn't stuck your massive fry in my milkshake."

Silence hits them like a truck before they both laugh, stupidly childish, sugarrushing and giggly. Happy.

"That sounded way dirtier than you meant it too, didn't it?"

The flash of her dangerously unguarded eyes dares him right back and once again Castle feels the shudder and flip motion of his stomach. Never one to back down from a dare and with the implication of ick at his taste-bud choices Castle finds himself rising to her challenge.

Maybe she shouldn't judge until she's tried it.

Castle plunges another fry into her milkshake, grin widening exponentially when she growls, offering up the salty potato niblet with a mischievous wink.

Given the things he likes to put in his mouth, the cheese and chocolate, eggs and Oreos combination, there's a little part of him - breakfast in bed, one day in the future, part - that really wants her to _like_ it.

Salty and sweet is kinda his thing.

She doesn't lean across the table and let him feed her as he'd hoped she might. Whatever disappointment he feels must show on his face because she rolls her eyes - _as if, Castle_ \- and takes the fry from his fingers instead.

She holds it up like a treasure, brandishes it as proof - _is he watching, yes, good_ \- before proceeding. Beckett dips again, allows the fry to sink and swirl through the thick pink icecream, slides it up and out wetly, plunging it between her lips.

Her eyes flutter closed as he stares and she licks the traces of salt and sugar from the edge of her mouth. Catching the trails of pink with her tongue so her lips glisten, Beckett makes a sound that belongs _thoroughly_ between the sheets and absolutely _nowhere_ in public.

Castle sets his food down before it ends up in a pile in his lap. He doesn't want to be rubbing at his pants when she's making noises like that, eyes half closed in sinful exaltation, breath a stutter that caresses the fairly phallic shaped dinner item.

She's got this whole _food porn_ thing going on that is gonna mess with his head for eternity. Fries are gonna be up there with leather and the scent of cherries when it comes to inanimate objects that weirdly turn him on.

She groans again, long and low and maybe deliberate. Can she not _hear_ the sound that comes out of her own mouth?

Beckett stops after the third one, threatening to steal his cheeseburger if he doesn't get to eating. His mouth is open, he probably should put something in it - other than his foot - before she notices that he's completely absorbed in watching her.

It takes a few bites and a lot of concentration but the table fills up with laughter as he chews, heart rate back to the normal rocket ship speed it exists at in her presence. The more time that passes the more relaxed they both become.

She mocks him, he takes it, gives it back, jokes shared as freely as the food. She's lighter now than she has been the last couple of days, weeks even, less furrowed brow and pursed lips, more prone to touching and blushing and just ridiculously _cute_.

She curls her hair behind her ear, covers her mouth with her fingers when she giggles. She hums his name and shakes her head, her eyes half cast in the shadow of her lashes, open and younger than he thinks he's ever seen her.

Suddenly he's convinced he's had Katherine Beckett pegged completely falsely from the start.

She's sweet and bold when she sits forward to swipe at his lips with her napkin. She mutters "oops" as though his messy mistake is her own, trailing her fingertips across his lips as if they're partners in more than just work and suggestion and longing. As though what they have goes beyond friendship, and isn't just the whispered, half spoken promise of _someday_ of a stolen kiss in the precinct that they _still_ haven't talked about.

There is definitely a new side to her that he's seeing. A strength of conviction in her movement, relief that he's here with her now and not out with another woman. A realness that he's always appreciated, even if, at the same time, it terrified him.

Maybe he should be quiet, maybe he shouldn't push _more_ than he already _is_ with his never ending coffee refills and lingering stares. Maybe he shouldn't be able to close his eyes and hear the echo of her voice on the swings. Taste her with every breath.

Maybe he shouldn't cling to a thirty second conversation with hope and white knuckled belief that _she's_ the one the way he does. But there's something in those quiet stretches of time that keeps him holding on. Between chews and sips and brushing fingers, when her eyes are obviously on him, _over_ him, sweeping his face so his cheeks flare red with heat.

In those seconds, trapped between heartbeats that call her name, that leave him breathless, that leave him convinced he's doing the right thing, he could _swear_ she feels it too.

She stares at his mouth and bites her lip. He does the same thing only to catch her as she smiles coyly into her napkin. It makes him wonder if she knows and does it on purpose, or if she just enjoys the possibility of it being his body's natural reaction to the warm, wet promise of her mouth.

How she makes him flush the way he does, he has no idea. Why she keeps looking at him that way, as though with every glance she gets a peek through his clothes is even more of a conundrum, but obviously the presence of Serena has left questions for them both.

His questions just happen to come barreling out of his mouth with the speed of a runaway horse.

"Do I belong to you?" Castle asks around the straw, his eyes staring straight at her when she snarfs, cough chokes on her shake and sets it down on the table with a bang, her face almost purple with shock.

"What?"

"Serena said -"

"Of course she did." Beckett mutters under her breath, anger this red hot blaze through her pupils, but he carries on, ignores - though, once again enjoys - the flare of jealousy in her tone.

"Serena said that she doesn't take things that _belong_ to other people, soooo..." He drags the word out, looks her over, eyes delightfully entertained as they roam up and down her body, "I got to thinking." Her eyes widen, lips in a line of what he likes to think of as _I want to laugh but won't give him the satisfaction_ amusement. "She didn't mean Esposito, sure as hell wasn't Gates."

Beckett smiles, despite the surprise and wariness that pulls a little at the curve of her lips. "Might have been Ryan," she hedges, cheeks still warm with confrontation.

Castle looks off in the distance trying to ignore the way his heart feels as though it's plummeting into his stomach. He nods, "Could be, I do think I'm his favorite."

He clears his throat when the words come out cracked and more jagged with emotion that he meant them to be. He shouldn't have pushed, he knew better.

"I could see that." She sounds almost hollow when she replies, the earlier, jovial tone completely gone. There is no tease here now, just recrimination, Beckett turning inwards for self inspection and finding herself lacking. He can see it in the shadowed depths of her downcast eyes, drawn back from his gaze but not quite hidden.

He has to fix it.

"It's the way he looks at me, right?"

She laughs and his eyes flash back to hers. She nods, her voice quiet, "His eyes _do_ linger." Her fingers curl, stroking the straw and she mutters quietly, "He misses you when you're not there."

Castle swallows and sidesteps his hopes as they barrel at him, asking instead, "He does?"

"Yeah," Beckett pushes away her plate and toys with her fingers, "Maybe he thinks it's quiet when you're not around, less fun."

Her eyes catch his own, seeming to ask him to push her again, push her beyond thinly veiled references to their friend and partner as an excuse, a shield for her own feelings.

Her pupils flare and fade out into the hazel field of her iris, green and gold and light and _please_ all there as she stares back hardly blinking lest he miss it.

"Even with 'Sito for company?" Castle's eyes narrow, keep up the charade whilst taking a step closer, even as a great wave of excited butterfly-monkey hybrids leap through his stomach and chest, all fluttering anticipation and shrieking glee.

Screw getting his hopes up, they're way, way up.

Up, in the stratosphere up.

Kissing the moon, and one very responsive detective, up.

"Espo's not you." She replies so quietly it's almost to herself, eyebrows knitting together as if she's baffled by a puzzle he can't see. As though, maybe _he's_ the mystery _she_ seeks to solve and they're just as stumped and mixed up as each other.

"Sounds like Ryan kinda likes me." Castle laughs halfheartedly, but it tumbles and lands in silence when she replies without hesitation.

"He loves you."

Their eyes meet as he holds the breath in his chest, terrified to let it go and break the spell and have the moment slip beyond their grasp. But, again, she floors him with her endless and unfathomable depths, her voice pure innocence when she adds, "Thinks you're kinda hot, too."

The breath explodes from him in a shocked laugh, because that isn't all that far from the truth. Maybe Beckett _and_ Ryan, both, a little bit.

He laughs loud and long and it draws the attention of several other diners, the eyes of the staff too, and earns him the pink cheeked, relief infused _giggle_ of one very, very special woman.

Beckett has her milkshake back in hand, lips poised at the edge of the straw, everything about her happy, by the time he recovers his breath.

She casts him in that same upward sweep and downward fall of her lashes that he tried, only the way she does it to him is more stimulating, more intimate. She holds the look, stares right into him, past those layers she's peeking through and suddenly - with the subtlest change - her eyes soften, her lips fall from the straw and she draws in a warm breath.

Beckett shakes her head and swallows, "Like a love sick puppy."

"What?" he chokes this time, confused, only to catch the mirthful and merciless dance of delight in her eyes as they crinkle.

"Ryan." She emphasizes, setting aside the glass and toying with her food once more.

"Mmhmm." He wants to push beyond that, to challenge and maybe tease a little too, find out if she'd take Ryan out of the equation. But the waitress returns and he takes their cheque without hesitation, handing it off to Beckett with a grin.

She laughs, clearly expecting an argument, relieved it never comes.

They leave forgetting sundaes and their half eaten food, too much lingering between them.

"I didn't answer your question," she hums quietly, as they wait at the curbs edge, the night air dancing around her face, her fingers burrowed into her pockets.

Castle startles, "Well, you didn't really need to," he aims for levity, falls short when his voice betrays his longing, "Ryan wasn't the one who kissed me."

"He's not the one in love with you either, Castle," he hears the falter of her breath and turns when her hands touch his chest. "You most definitely do _not_ belong to Serena Kaye."

He laughs, breathless, and slips a hand to the lowest curve of her back, his body alive at the contact.

"Or Gates." She steps in closer, shivers, swallows hard, fluttering her fingers over his shirt buttons, seeking warmth. "Not Espo or Ryan."

"Do I belong to you?" He asks again, words tumbling out before he can stop them, her touch spurring courage, his hope soaring once more.

"Mm, not yet," she smiles slowly, fingers sneaking a little deeper into the warmth of his coat, brushing his lips before she kisses him, touching the curve of his smile, "but I'd like it if you did."

* * *

**4x05. A fic about Beckett taking Castle out for that burger.**

**4x05. "Think she'll get him to talk?" "Who knows, Castle. Maybe she'll kiss it out of him." Castle decides he needs to shut Beckett up about him kissing Serena, so he turns and kisses her instead.**


End file.
